


Five Things To Do While You're Stuck In The Car With An Angel

by CasHasThePhoneBox



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempt at Humor, BAMF Castiel, BAMF Sam Winchester, Bad Jokes, Bored Dean, Cas Doesn't Get It, Confused Castiel, Dean Being an Idiot, Dean Is Kind Of Mean, Dean is secretly an 8-year-old, Gen, Humor, Immature Dean, Inappropriate Humor, Road Trips, Sam is so patient, So is Castiel sort of, The Impala Is A Living Thing, This is supposed to be funny, stupid games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3291074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasHasThePhoneBox/pseuds/CasHasThePhoneBox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, the endless driving can get boring. Fortunately, clueless angels can be pretty entertaining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad Jokes

**Author's Note:**

> This could happen mid-Season 4.

Angels pretty much suck – even the ones who _don’t_ want to wipe towns off the face of the earth. They show up and vanish randomly (Cas, for the twelfth time, the bathroom is _sacred_ ), invade your personal space (GETOFFMYLAPOFFOFFOFF!!!!!!!!!!!), teleport you places with no warning (Dude, you owe me some Ex-Lax), watch you while you’re sleeping (Coin collecting! Model trains! _Doll-making!_ I mean, just get a freakin’ _hobby_ already!), and creepy-stare at you until your skin crawls. They don’t sleep or eat or anything, and therefore _constantly_ forget that you have to. They use words even the dictionary doesn’t know in everyday conversation, and they get you into crazy awkward situations by their complete social inept… ness… yeah, whatever. What Sam the Super Grammar Attorney don’t know won’t hurt him.

But having an angel on your side does come with some perks. There’s the obvious, of course – the badass mojo can come in real handy in a tight spot. So can the healing ability, and the fact that angels are nearly indestructible doesn’t hurt, either. Plus, they know all kinds of random stuff about pretty much anything supernatural, which can save you a ton of research.

Less obvious, however, is the entertainment value. There’s nothing quite like having a socially-stunted, culturally oblivious angel to bother on a long drive through exotic Nebraska. Case in point: Sam’s been whining about hearing Led Zeppelin _again_ for the last eighty miles, so you switched it off and started badgering him with lawyer jokes, only you switch “lawyer” out for “pre-law student.” Sam glares and says that’s really not funny right now, but you see the trying-not-to-crack-a-smile tension in his cheeks, so you press on.

“Hey Sam, do you know the different between a hooker and a pre-law student? You see, there’s some stuff a hooker just won’t do…”

“Really?” says Sam. “You’re gonna joke about hookers with an angel in the car?”

You hadn’t even thought of that. “Why, yes, Sammy, as a matter of fact I am. Hey, Cas, did you hear about the hookers in the hardware store?”

“No, Dean, I did not,” says the angel in the back seat.

“Whole troop of ‘em, maybe ten or so, they go walking into this hardware store, and they’re just hanging out in the aisles, and the manager spots ‘em and asks ‘em to leave, but then this customer comes running up and says ‘No, wait! I’ll take ‘em, I’ve been looking all over this store for good screws!”

Sam rolls his eyes, and when you peek in the rearview to see Castiel’s reaction, he’s staring blankly.

“ ‘Samatter, Cas? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No,” he replies. “Are you attempting to do so?”

“Yes, he is,” says Sam.

“Why?” asks Castiel. “Dean, you are the one who insisted I come with you.”

“That’s what she said!” you crow triumphantly.

Sam groans. “Deean!”

There’s a few seconds delay. Then: “…Who is ‘she’?” Castiel asks, hesitantly.

Sam quickly ducks his head sideways and looks out the window, but you hear his snort of repressed laughter.

“Are we speaking of Lilith? Or Ruby?” questions the angel, sounding more confused than ever.

This is too good. Cas clearly has no idea what is going on – in fact, knowing angels, he’s probably never even heard of the concept of a joke before. Angels don’t seem to have much of a sense of humor.

Speaking of which… “So, Cas, what do your buddy Uriel and a vampire’s penis have in common?”

A moment of silence. “I don’t understand the question. Why are we discussing genitalia? Are we no longer talking about Lilith? Were we _ever_ talking about Lilith?” He pauses, as if for effect. “And your anecdote about the hardware store. I don’t know why a ‘hooker’ shouldn’t be in one, but it seems trivial in light of the oncoming Apocalypse.”

Oh, the fun you can have with this guy. He has _no clue._

“Okay, okay, let’s try an easier question,” you say, fighting to keep the laughter out of your voice. “Cas, how many angels does it take to change a light bulb?” You peek in the rearview again.

Castiel’s forehead is slightly wrinkled in consideration. “I don’t actually think that would be a wise idea,” he finally says. “Light bulbs do not seem to respond especially well to the presence of angels. I think you’d be displeased with the results.” He considers for a moment longer. “Is this why you were talking about the hardware store?”

Sam appears to be having a small seizure in the passenger seat.

“Yes,” you choke out. “You got it. So, now, answer me this one: Why did the chicken cross the road?”

This time, when Castiel speaks, his voice has that slight edge which means he’s getting irritated. “Dean. Please explain to me how poultry is relevant to the Apocalypse.”

You explode into a fit of mostly-silent laughter. It actually distracts you enough that you swerve onto the shoulder for a moment and have to fight to straighten Baby out. You mentally apologize to her while Cas calls up from the back seat. “Dean? Dean, are you okay? What is going on?”

“I’m fine, Cas,” you reassure him, once things are back under control. “Just answer the question. Why did the chicken cross the road?”

“If you insist,” says Cas doubtfully. “I know little about the motivations of chickens in general, let alone this specific chicken to which you refer. However, assuming that they operate similarly to other creatures of my Father’s, such as cats, humans, bees, and other birds… I think the most likely explanation is that the chicken wished to get to the other side of the road, for some reason or another.”

You want to laugh, but it’s sound logic. It’s actually reasonably impressive for someone who’s never heard that one before to come up with the correct answer. But then, angel. Angel brains are probably all weird and work differently than human ones.

Heh. Angel brains.

“Perhaps the chicken in question wanted something that was on the other side of the road,” suggests Castiel, sounding a bit less sure.

“It’s a joke, Cas,” says Sam, finally recovering from his giggle fit. “They all are. But yes, you got the right answer. The chicken crossed the road because he wanted to get to the other side.”

“Jokes?”

“They’re supposed to be funny,” Sam informs.

Castiel does that little confused head tilt thing of his. “What is funny about a chicken crossing the road?”

“It’s because the answer is obvious, but most people miss that and try to come up with complicated explanations.”

Your celestial companion considers this. “Oh,” he says somberly. “I still do not understand about the hardware store, or the light bulbs, or the unnamed female, or the genitalia.”

“Never mind, Cas,” you tell him. “Try this, instead! Knock, knock.”

There is another moment of almost audible hesitation, then two timid _thunk_ s of knuckles on glass from the back seat.

“What did that accomplish?” comes from the back seat.

“He wants you to pretend you’re answering the door,” Sam explains.

You can just picture the _now processing your request_ look on Castiel’s face – or would that be his vessel’s face? You’re not really sure, although it seems like Cas is responsible for the expressions the face wears…

“Which door? This?” asks Cas. You sneak another glance in the mirror, and yup, he’s looking curiously at the car door next to him. “I don’t know how to answer. I’ve never been addressed by a door before.”

Sam sighs. He sounds exasperated, but you can tell he’s totally entertained. “Imagine you’re in a house, and you hear someone knocking on the door. What would you do?”

“I would open the door.”

“Well, what would you say?”

“Hello.”

Another sigh. “You’re supposed to say ‘Who’s there?’, Cas.”

“Why?” asks the thoroughly confused angel. “Having opened the door, I would clearly see who was there, even if I hadn’t already sensed the identity of the newcomer. That question would be unnecessary.”

“Forget it,” you tell him, because the overly literally… wait… whatever. It’s starting to be tired, not fun, so you pick out a new one. “Here’s another one. This one’s a riddle: What do you get if you cross a cow and a duck?” Okay, so it’s lame, but you just drove past a cattle farm. First thing besides grass and telephone poles you’ve seen for miles.

“An abomination,” answers Castiel promptly, vehemently. “Whatever ritual you are considering, do not attempt it.”

“Remember what Sam just said, like two seconds ago, about it being a joke?” you ask, slowly, enunciating, so Cas figures out that he’s being a dumbass. “Yeah, we’re still doing that. It’s not serious, it’s supposed to be funny, and even kinda stupid.”

“Oh,” says Castiel. He doesn’t sound convinced.

“What you get,” you announce grandly, “when you cross a cow and a duck, is milk and quackers!”

Sam supplies an obliging “Ba-dum –CH!” and you nod to your imaginary audience. “Yes, thankyaverymuch, ladies and gentlemen!”

More awkward silence from the back seat. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s a play on words,” says Sam, ever the teacher. “Cows make milk. Ducks quack.”

“…Okay.” Cas still doesn’t really get it. “Uriel sometimes ‘plays on words’,” he says, after some consideration.

You can believe it. Uncomfortably, you remember the whole ‘angel food cake’ situation.

“So, tell us one of his,” says Sam inclusively. “What do angels think is funny?”

You hear the quiet huff that passes for a chuckle from the angel. “Well… there _is_ the one where two seraphim are seeking revelation, and the first says ‘I have not yet received that which I sought,’ and the second replies ‘Your wisdom is become as the sword of Gadreel’.”

He pauses.

And pauses some more.

And then you realize that was it.

“O…kay,” says Sam.

A glance in the rearview shows you the almost-smile fading from Cas’s face.

“It… was funny when I heard it,” he says. “Uriel tells it better. Perhaps something simpler… this one is kind of like yours with the domestic animals. It is a question which must be answered: What are archangels made of?”

He waits expectantly, for guesses, maybe, so you humor him and give it a shot. “Light. Arcs. Rainbows. Bunnies. Unicorns. Pie. Dirty Socks.”

Okay, you’re not really giving it a shot. Or humoring him.

Castiel looks affronted. “Certainly not.” You can feel the angel’s gaze burning the back of your neck. “Dean. You’re not really trying, are you,” he accuses.

“The same stuff regular angels are made of, only more of it?” Sam asks placatingly.

The burning stops. You feel the back of your neck to see if your hair is singed.

“You’re not entirely wrong,” Castiel tells Sam, “But that’s not really the answer.”

“All right, Cas, we give up,” says Sam. “What are archangels made of?”

“It is of no import!” cries Castiel brightly.

After a few uncomfortable moments, Sam forces a laugh, and says, “Good one, Cas!” too heartily. Then he nudges you.

“Dean. He’s trying. Be nice,” he grits into your ear, forgetting that Cas can hear stuff humans can’t.

“Uh, yeah, that’s flippin’ hilarious,” you say as unconvincingly as possible.

Castiel is, appropriately, not convinced. “I may have translated that incorrectly from Enochian. Perhaps it should be more like, ‘It does not matter’.”

“…Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense,” says Sam encouragingly.

“Or maybe, ‘It is immaterial’.”

“Right,” says Sam. He’s starting to look a little panicky now.

“Angels and archangels are not material beings,” says Castiel sternly.

You decide you don’t care. As far as you’re concerned, none of the jokes are that funny on their own, yours or theirs. Cas’ reactions to the ones he doesn’t get, though? Or Sam trying desperately to include Cas by faking laughter at bizarre angel humor? Priceless. You could go on like this forever.


	2. Twenty Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are better when Dean's mind is busy.

_No more jokes_ , Sam said about twenty minutes ago. He was getting tired, he said, and it wasn’t funny anymore.

You privately disagreed, but the kid was looking pretty rough around the edges, maybe getting one of his headaches again or something, so you let him be. But your brain is bored, which is bad because when that happens it finds its own toys to play with – sharp, burny, dangerous toys that you keep locked up in a deep dark closet because they hurt to play with. Sometimes at night, they get scattered around and bad stuff happens, and that’s one thing, but during the day, when you’re behind the wheel and responsible for the safety of Sam and Baby – and, for the moment, Cas, you guess – you can’t afford to have your evil subconscious throwing Hell-toys out of its crib to try and get your attention.

You need a distraction to keep that from happening. Fortunately, though Sammy doesn’t want to play, there’s still Cas.

“Hey, Cas. Wanna play 20 Questions?”

“What is 20 Questions?”

You laugh easily. “Hey, you’re a natural. Off to a great start already.”

“…I don’t understand.”

“I’ll think of something. You ask me yes-or-no questions. If you haven’t figured out what I’m thinking of by the time you’ve asked twenty questions, I win. If you figure it out before then, you win.”

“I win?” he says dubiously. “By asking no questions?”

“Ask him something he can answer with the words ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” mumbles Sam, without opening his eyes.

“Why?”

“Nope. Try again, Cas,” you chuckle.

“That isn’t what I meant,” he says, sounding disgruntled. You check the mirror, and yup, there’s a pouting angel in your back seat. Awesome.

“Is this really necessary?”

“Yes!” you answer. “That’s it, Cas! See how I could answer, just by saying ‘yes’? That’s the kind of question you want!”

God, you love messing with angels. And now, a moment of silence to contemplate just how wrong _that_ sentence is…

Yeah, screw that. “Okay,” you tell him. “I’ve got something. Guess what it is,” and you lean back and picture a nice, big, flaky-crusted piece of gooey cherry –

“Pie,” announces Castiel assuredly. “You are thinking of pie.”

Damn angels and their creepy mind-reading abilities! While you’re working up to bawl him out, he interjects, “Oh. It was supposed to be a question, wasn’t it? Dean, are you thinking of pie?”

“CAS! GET THE _HELL_ OUT OF MY HEAD!” you yell, loud enough to make Sam jump. “Sorry, Sam.” You didn’t mean to disturb him, even though you are genuinely pretty mad at Cas. Damn angel should know better by now than to go snooping around in your head, doggone it, you have _talked_ about this before!

“I think that is probably impossible,” says the angel dismally. “I have tried.”

“He doesn’t want you reading his mind, Cas,” translates Sam. “Most humans feel that way, remember? We like a little bit of privacy.”

“Yeah, like we’ve talked about a zillion times!” you say heatedly. “And anyways, reading minds is cheating! You wouldn’t wanna be a _cheat_ , now, would you? ‘Cause that’s pretty much the same as stealing…” You feel yourself settle a bit, because you know stealing will freak him out.

It does. “I am sorry,” he apologizes. He sounds worried. “I will not steal, or cheat, or read your mind again.”

“Good!” you say, sternly, to make sure you got the point across. And, hey, you _are_ still a little peeved by his abuse of power. “Now, guess what I’m thinking of!” you command.

“Mastodons!” he snaps.

Sam, who was settling back into his seat, sits up again and twists to look at Cas, flashing you a glimpse of his spectacular _WTF?_ face on the way.

“Mastodons?” Sam queries.

“Mastodons?” you echo. “Why would I be thinking of _mastodons?_ I’m not sure I even know what a mastodon even _is!”_ That’s a lie, by the way. You totally know it’s a giant hairy badass prehistoric version of an elephant. Still, why Cas would think you were thinking of one is beyond you.

“You asked me to guess,” he says sulkily. “I was not aware that the guess had to be logical.”

“That’s why you’re supposed to ask twenty questions first,” says Sam.

There’s a beat.

“…Now?”

You roll your eyes, even though you know he can’t see it from where he’s sitting. Or, who knows, maybe he can. Maybe he can see right through your head, and your brain, and your eyeballs… yichh. Freakin’ angels.

“Yes, Cas, now. Any time. Ask away.”

“Are you thinking about sexual intercourse?”

Sam gives up pretending to sleep and lets out a snort of laughter. Doesn’t bother you, though; you’re a pretty simple guy, and you’ve never pretended otherwise.

“For once in my life, no,” you say, because you had something else in mind. “But ask again in seven seconds. That was a good guess.”

Silence falls again, just about long enough to be awkward.

Then Castiel asks again.

“Are you thinking about sexual intercourse?”

“No, Cas!” you groan.

“You instructed me to ask you again in seven seconds,” he accuses. “It was seven seconds.”

You consider explaining it to him, but decide it’s not worth the effort. “Never mind. Ask something else.”

“Are you thinking about beer?”

“No.”

“Are you thinking about whiskey?”

“No.”

“Are you thinking about alcoholic beverages of any kind?”

“Nope.”

“Are you thinking about Hell?”

You nearly jerk Baby off the road again. “I am now!” you snap. “Thanks a bunch, Cas!”

“You’re… welcome,” he says uncertainly, and you can just _hear_ him wondering why you would want to be reminded of Hell. “Does this mean I win? That was only eight questions.”

“No!”

Sam comes to the rescue. “It doesn’t count, because you made him think about it by saying it,” he explains. “Why don’t you try asking less specific questions? You can narrow it down that way.”

“Okay,” agrees Castiel. “Are you thinking of something you would hunt?”

“No way,” you say. You’d never do that to Baby.

“Are you thinking of a living thing?”

You consider that for a moment. “Totally,” you announce, feeling an affectionate grin slide onto your face.

“Are you fond of this living thing?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Is it Sam?”

“Not this time,” you say, winking at your brother, who has gone a little bit red.

“Is it Bobby Singer?”

“Nope.”

Cas is quiet for a moment. Maybe he’s stumped. “Does it have wheels?” he suddenly asks, an edge of suspicion in his voice.

Aww, man, he _knows_. He’s got you now.

“Yes,” you reply. You’re feeling pleased, though, that he recognizes the fact that you keep Baby in the category of ‘living things,’ even though it means he’s gonna win.

“I see,” he replies, sounding satisfied. You brace yourself for the last question, the one that will give him the game.

“Is it a tiger?”

Wait, _what?_

“Is it spray paint?” he presses, without waiting for an answer. “Is it a cup of coffee?”

“Cas! What are you doing?” cries Sam. There’s that _wtf?_ face again. In fact, you suspect there’s an _actual_ included in there. “You know it’s something that’s – ” he clears his throat, “ – ‘alive’, and has wheels, and you guess ‘a cup of coffee’? What cup of coffee have you encountered that’s alive and has – you know what, actually? I don’t really wanna know. The point is, you knew it was a living thing that Dean likes, and you asked if it has wheels, which I’m pretty sure means you know what he’s thinking of. What gives?”

“Of course I know that Dean is thinking of this vehicle,” says Castiel patiently. “But I understand this game is called ‘Twenty Questions’, and I have only asked seventeen, if you count all of my guesses and don’t count the ones I asked prior to your informing me that reading Dean’s mind constitutes as cheating. Therefore, I must ask two more questions before I can ask if Dean is thinking of the car. Then it will be the twentieth question, and I will win.”

You decide Sam would make a great kindergarten teacher, ‘cause he is _way_ more explain…ation…ier…ative… whatever! You give up!

“You can ask _as many as_ twenty questions,” Sam is saying. “But if you think you know what he’s thinking of before that, you can guess even if you haven’t already asked nineteen other questions. You don’t have to use all twenty to win the game.”

“Oh. I see,” says Castiel. “Dean. Are you thinking of your car?”

“Yes!” you confirm. It’s actually kind of a relief. You hadn’t realized it, but this whole process kind of dragged on.

Evidently, in addition to being dicks, angels are pretty much morons.

Well, morons with wings and superpowers, but that just makes it worse, doesn’t it?


	3. License Plates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean should've hung on to that particular unfair advantage.

The road never gone by so slowly. You quit playing Twenty Questions a while back; Cas doesn’t seem to get that it’s not really fair for him to be thinking of things like the Celestial Body of Inquiries, which you’d never heard of until he told you because ‘it is known only to those who inhabit Heaven, and its mission only to its members.’

Now, though, Sam is dead asleep, and you’re deathly _bored._ Nobody has said anything for miles. You consider blasting some tunes so you can watch Sam wake up and flip out, but… nah. He needs the sleep.

Still, you’re about to go out of your skull with boredom. You use the mirror again to look at Cas, and even he looks bored. He’s sitting back against the seat, gazing dully out the window – you bet if he were human, his eyes would be glazed and he’d be drooling all over his trenchcoat.

“Doin’ all right back there, Cas?”

“Of course,” he says shortly. “But I do not understand why you insisted that I accompany you.”

Yeah, you’re pretty sure that’s angel-speak for ‘dying of boredom, please resuscitate.’

“Ok, then. Time for License Plates.”

“License plates?” inquires the angel. Based on the tone, that one should probably be translated as ‘What new devilry is this?’ Wait, isn’t that from Lord of the Rings? You’re pretty sure it is…

“…Dean?”

“Right. The License Plate Game. It’s easy. All you have to do is watch for cars with license plates from different states. First person to see a license plate from a new state yells it out, and then they get a point. Whoever has the most points by our next stop wins. Winner buys the loser a beer.”

“…Okay.”

You spot Idaho almost immediately, and shout it out. Then there’s a crummy little Escape with Nebraska plates, and a truck in for the long haul from Virginia. By the time you’ve ticked off Wyoming and Oklahoma and Cas hasn’t said a thing, though, you figure something’s wrong. You may have almost thirty years of human experience, and Cas may not be that good at noticing human stuff yet, but you’d expected him to get at least one.

“Cas? You decide not to play or something?”

He’s frowning out the window. There’s an unsettled feeling coming off him. Finally, he admits, “I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to be looking for.”

“License plates, Cas, I told you,” you remind him.

“What _is_ a license plate?” he demands with sudden intensity, his eyes flashing wide and blue in your rearview mirror.

“Oh. Okay, that makes sense now,” you say. You’re not above having a little fun with him, but you don’t wanna be a total asshole. “You know, I actually get why you wouldn’t know that, or notice it. I mean, it’s not like you normally spend a lot of time around cars, do you?”

“Not except yours,” he says, seeming appeased.

You point out the license plates on several passing cars to him.

“I see,” he acknowledges comprehendingly. “In that case, I see one for the state of 694-AHZ.”

You allow yourself a little private chuckle over that before pointing out the difference between license plate numbers and the state they’re from.

Too bad, because from then on out, he wallops you. Apparently, his angelic eyesight is waaaaay better than yours, even if he doesn’t use any extra senses, and he make out details on the plates when your eyes still just see rectangles on the bumpers.

“Florida,” he calls out, for a car that’s still about two city blocks away.

You sigh and pull onto the exit ramp toward a rest stop.

“You win,” you inform him, as Baby rolls to a stop next to the gas pump. “I owe you a beer. C’mon, Sammy, wake up. ‘S your last chance to pee for a while.”

Sam half mumbles and half growls something that sounds vaguely threatening, but he drags himself out of the seat and sort of slumps off towards the convenience store with his eyes half-closed. You follow him in and take a leak yourself before perusing the store aisles. A few minutes later, you’re on your way out with a six-pack, some beef jerky, jalepeño cheetos, two Hostess pies (cherry and apple), and a banana for your brother who is confused and thinks he’s a rabbit or a chimpanzee or something that only eats fruit and vegetables and stuff. You deposit the goods on the front seat, then head back to put the beers in the trunk. You muse that it’s a good thing Cas won, anyway, because even if he has money on him, he probably has no clue how to use it.

You open his door and invite him out of the car. “Here ya go, Cas,” you say, slapping a beer into his hand. “You gotta drink it now, or wait ‘til later, ‘cause we’ll get busted if a cop sees alcohol open in the car while we’re driving.”

Cas stares at the bottle in his hand like he thinks it might eat him. “I do not drink,” he finally says, as if just realizing it.

Of course he doesn’t, because angels are stuffy, snobby dicks. “Fine. I’ll pick you up a soda or something,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“No, I mean I do not drink… anything. Nor do I eat. Consumption of food and drink is unnecessary.” He fixes you in one of his wide-eyed, waaay-too-intense gazes. “The thought is appreciated, but perhaps you should drink this instead.” And he hands the beer back to you.

You know, this particular angel ain’t half bad.


	4. Poker (or Poke Him)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get physical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is perhaps skirting the edge of the genre known as "CRACK!fic." There is simply no excuse for the bad pun, or for Dean's immaturity. My apologies.

The thing is, Sam won’t let you drive now that you’ve had a beer (because half-asleep and headache-y is sooo much better).

“No, go sit in the back,” he even demanded, when you tried to climb into the passenger side. “I know you’re gonna rope Cas into some stupid, random word game in about two minutes. At least if you sit back there with him, then you won’t have to yell it at him from the front seat, and I might finally get some peace.”

Therefore, because, in secret, you are basically a big gooey melted marshmallow where Sam’s needs are concerned (yes, after all these years you admit it, but that’s for your ears only), you are stuck in back with Mr. I-Am-A-Stoic-And-Stoney-Statue-Angel-Dude-Who-Never-Moves-So-Why-Must-You-Fidget-So?

Okay, Cas doesn’t really say any of that, but he _looks_ like it. Dude hasn’t moved a muscle for a full hour, and he isn’t asleep. Plus, you aren’t talking with him just to stick it to Sam because he said you would, so yeah, you’re pretty quickly reaching the point of desperately needing something to do. As in, _crossword puzzle_ kind of desperate.

Normal people would probably be all into watching the mountain scenery or something, but you’ve driven this road so many times you practically have it memorized. You wish Castiel would shift or sigh or blink or _something,_ just so you could watch something happen (okay, creepy, that sounds like something he would do) or maybe just so you know you’re not alone in your restlessness and boredom.

But Castiel just continues staring placidly at the back of the seat in front of him. Maybe he’s tuned into Angel Radio or something.

You decide it’s totally not fair that he gets to listen to stuff when you can’t. In fact, it has become your sacred and holy mission to force him to stop sitting there like a freakin’ ice sculpture and do something to entertain you. And, get this, Sam – you’re gonna accomplish this without saying a word.

Experimentally, you reach toward him. He doesn’t react, so you are sure all is well. You extend your index finger and poke him gently in the middle of his trench-coated arm, right below the deltoid muscle. Then, lightning quick, you retreat to your previous position, as if you had never moved.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him slowly turn to look at his arm, and then at you. You maintain your mask of poised nonchalance. Cas stares for a minute, then resumes his own former position.

You count two minutes (one thousand one, one thousand two, all the way up to one-twenty) before repeating the exercise. Cas looks at you again, and without really seeing it you notice the slight pucker of his eyebrows in confusion. When you don’t react, he turns away again.

Two minutes later, you poke him a third time. This time, his head whips toward you quick enough to see you pull your hand back to your side.

“Dean,” he says questioningly. You look at him, give him a smirk and a little ‘that’s-my-name-don’t-wear-it-out’ nod, and pretend nothing happened.

In your peripheral vision, you see him perform the ‘Cas-Doesn’t-Get-It Head Tilt™.’

Oh, yeah. This is gonna be _great._

You count another two minutes and poke him again.

“Dean!” exclaims the angel. “ _What_ are you doing?”

You flash him a ‘who, me?’ look.

Sam’s missing the byplay, but apparently Cas’s outburst was enough to get him involved. “What’s going on back there?” he calls.

“Dean persists in touching my vessel, and he refuses to explain why,” complains Castiel. Good Lord, he’s pouting again, and you’re pretty sure you just got him to whine ‘Dean’s touching me!’ in angel-speak.

“Dean, leave Cas alone.”

You break your vow of silence to say, “Hey, it’s not me!” as innocently as you can. “Maybe one of your angel buddies is hazing you, Cas.”

“It _is_ you, Dean,” says Castiel sternly. “Do not take me for a fool; I saw you. It was not hazy at all.”

“Eh, pretty sure you saw exactly what your angel buddy wanted you to see,” you say, shrugging and tossing in a careless laugh just for good measure. “Or maybe you’re just making it up.”

Castiel’s eyes flash. “I am _not…_ ‘making it up’.”

You wave him off with a dismissive hand. “Pssh. ‘Protest too much,’ why don’t you. Never fear, Sammy, it’s all a figment of his overactive angelic imagination. ‘S okay, Cas, we’ve all done dumb shit to get attention from time to time.”

Castiel fixes you in his overly blue glare. You’re kind of hoping he’ll contradict you directly, as he so often does – mostly ‘cause you wanna hear Mr. Unflappable Angel say the words ‘dumb shit’.

Unfortunately, he just narrows his eyes and says, “YOU BEAR FALSE WITNESS AGAINST ME,*” in this steely, low-down voice that’s actually a little bit scary. You remember that he is, after all, an angel, who could totally smite your ass if he wanted to.

Then you remember that he’s the particular angel who dragged you kicking and screaming out of ‘Perdition’, and that if he sends you back there, he probably has to go after you and get you out again. Somehow, you’re thinking that’s not gonna happen.

You give him time to settle down. After twelve minutes, you sneak a glance at him and figure he’s doing okay. He’s still sitting rigid, but he always does that, and he’s staring blankly again. You’re golden. You reach out and poke him again.

“ **DEAN!** ” he thunders.

“Okay, Cas,” you chuckle, “You’ve made your point. It was funny the first couple times, but enough with your little imaginary friends now, okay?”

He’s glaring blue murder at you. You read tension in the muscles of his jaw – that’s right, you have officially made an angel grind his teeth. How badass are you?

Sam lets out a sigh of exasperation. “Whatever you two are doing back there, could you keep it down? It’s really obnoxious and distracting.”

Castiel makes a visible effort to calm himself, but doesn’t take his eyes off you.

“Cas, if Dean’s bothering you, just ignore him. That way he’ll get bored and stop,” Sam advises.

You wink at Cas. He gives you the dirtiest look you’ve ever seen on his face, so you wait until he’s no longer looking directly at you to stick your tongue out at him. You pull a couple other faces, crossing your eyes and all.

“Dean. Is something wrong,” he says icily.

“Nope. All good over here,” you say cheerily. Sam snorts up in front. “I’m good. How ‘bout you, Cas, you good?”

Cas goes back to staring at the back of Sam’s head.

You poke him again. He stiffens, but he seems to be trying to take Sam’s advice.

Yeah, we’ll see how long _that_ lasts. You give him another poke. And another.

Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke poke poke poke pokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepoke

pokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepo-

**"DEAN!” **

The air crackles with energy – or maybe it’s the bones in your wrist doing the crackling. Castiel is gripping it, _tight_ , twisting it awkwardly above both your heads. He’s about an inch away from your face, and all you can see is electric blue wrath about to rain down on your ass, and probably the rest of you, too, because oh, Crap, Castiel _is_ an Angel, and he is _Pissed._

**"DESIST!”** he commands (snarls) venomously. There is definitely a small thunderclap that happens on the second syllable of that word.

Baby shrieks as Sam abruptly pulls onto the shoulder and brakes, breaking up the moment, thank God. Well, actually, thank Sam.

“Do I have your attention, gentlemen?” said brother says, firing bitchface all over you and the angel. “Look. I am gonna say this once, and only once, mmkay? Dean. Quit being a moron, leave Cas alone, and keep your hands to yourself. Cas, you’re an angel. Act like one, by which I mean quit reacting to my idiot brother. Both of you: try to pretend, just for a moment, that you are fully functioning adults instead of whiny, bratty eight-year-olds. Now, I am going to pull back onto the road, and I am going to drive, and you two are going to sit there and do absolutely anything that does not involve making noise or killing each other. If I have to stop this car again, you will not like what happens next. Are we clear?”

You look from Sam, who looks totally composed, to Cas, who looks half wrath-y and half like someone just reached up inside him and ripped his diaphragm out through his ass.

Damn. Your (admittedly pretty giant) baby brother just successfully dressed down an angel.

“Yes, Sam. Yes, we’re clear,” you say. You’ll be back to jerking him around soon, but he just earned himself some temporary respect. You nudge Cas, who doesn’t seem to know what to do.

“Um. We are clear,” he confirms, like he has no idea what it means. Which, actually is probably the case, but the fire is almost gone from his eyes, so that’s a good thing.

“Good,” says Sam, with a creepily pleasant smile, and he pulls back onto the road.

Castiel stares at you for a minute, wide-eyed. You don’t blame him; it’s probably not every day he gets out-bamf’d by a human. His gaze flicks up for a moment, then back to yours.

“…I’m going to let go now,” he informs you, releasing your wrist. You wince a little as you massage it and roll your aching shoulder. Dude was close to crushing it or dislocating the arm.

Now he looks worried. “Did I injure you?” he asks with concern.

“Nah, just a little sore,” you say.

“I apologize,” he says. He hangs his head in a deliberate manner which suggests ‘this-is-how-I-have-observed-humans-behaving-in-similar-situations’ more than actual remorse, though there’s a little of that, too. Mostly, there’s just Castiel awkwardly staring at his lap, which is really more like staring at _your_ lap because he’s still so close to you that you can see the gel spiking his hair.

“Ookay, time for us to have a little talk,” you say – quietly, because you don’t want to bother Sam. “There’s this concept humans have that we call ‘personal space’.”

Castiel listens attentively while you explain that, most of the time, being closer than like two feet from other humans is weird. As you talk, he suddenly looks at his proximity to you, and very obviously and abruptly scoots all the way to the far side of the seat, where he more or less plasters himself against the door. Which is vaguely adorable, in an ‘aw-lookit-he’s-trying-so-hard-to-do-it-right’ kind of way.

You resist the urge as long as you can, but you were always gonna break sooner or later. You reach out and poke him again.

His expression of mixed fury, astonishment, and just a little bit of panic is hilarious. Conspiratorially, you raise a finger to your lips and jerk your head towards Sam. You really hope Cas gets it instead of getting mad, because if not, you’re pretty sure you’re screwed.

His eyebrows crunch in confusion, and his starts to imitate your ‘shushing’ gesture. Then, comprehension flashes across his face. Tentatively, he reaches out instead.

And pokes you right back.

You flash him a thumbs-up, which has him tilting his head again.

Angels, you decide, can be kind of awesome. You know, maybe. A little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Words spoken in caps lock are infused with just a bit of Grace. Words in caps lock and bold are infused with a respectable portion of Grace. Words in caps lock, bold, and underlined are backed with a substantial amount of Grace, just shy of the True Voice. This is not the most grammatically correct way to convey this, but the correct way involves multiple font sizes. Therefore, we must unfortunately settle for what resources are available, incomplete though they be. My apologies again.


	5. I Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel, it turns out, is both absurdly literal and really useful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter.

You haven’t been on the road very long when Sam follows the ‘Food and Gas’ signs to a town called Maudeville. He pulls into the parking lot of a pharmacy.

“Excedrin,” he tells you with an apologetic half-shrug. He looks kind of miserable.

You get out and climb into the driver’s seat. Oh, yes, it’s good to be back!

Cas is being all awkward and silent, so you blast some music to see if you can make him jump. He doesn’t. Sam comes out of the pharmacy, digs a water bottle out of the trunk, and chugs it with one of the pills he just bought.

“Noise. Off,” he says flatly. You comply; if he’s not arguing about you driving, it must be pretty bad.

“You wanna lay down in the back and sleep?” you suggest. “Cas can sit up here, so you have the whole seat to yourself.”

“God, yes,” agrees Sam. “That way, when you get bored and start poking each other and get in a crash that kills us all, I won’t see it coming, and will die blissfully unaware.”

“Don’t worry, Sam,” you comfort him. “Cas is pretty much indestructible. He’d survive the crash, and then he’d patch us both back up or bring us back to life or something – wouldn’t you, Cas?”

“I would do my utmost,” says the angel mildly.

Sam flops into the back seat with such abandon that only Castiel’s ability to teleport saves him from getting a lap full of half-conscious giant.

Castiel appears in the front passenger spot with the usual flapping sound. He looks vaguely unsettled. “I think Sam doesn’t share your standards of ‘personal space’,” he informs you.

Sam doesn’t respond; he’s too busy settling his old hoodie over his face.

You get back on the road, wondering what other entertainment you might be able to get out of Cas without bugging Sam too much. “Hey, Cas. I spy with my little eye something that starts with the letter ‘S’.”

He scans you waaay too intensely. Just when you’re about to say something, he beats you to it. “You have only two eyes, and they are both the same size. Also, they are no smaller than seems to be typical for humans.”

It takes you a moment to realize that he fixated on the ‘little eye’ part. “No, Cas – ”

“Oh,” he interrupts. “This is an example of sarcasm, isn’t it.”

“Not really,” you tell him. “But it wasn’t supposed to be literal, either. It’s just part of the game. You’re supposed to say it that way.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know! ‘Cause it rhymes, probably?” It’s not like you invented the game. “It’s a time-honored tradition.”

Castiel looks thoughtful. He frowns. “Your other games didn’t involve rhyming words. I find humans very inconsistent.”

You can’t really argue with that. “Come on, Cas, just guess. It’s a guessing game. I spy something that starts with ‘S’.”

“Am I supposed to ask questions this time?”

“No, just guess.”

“Stars.”

Angels, man. Total morons. “You remember how I said ‘I _spy_ ’? Yeah, that means we’re talking something you can _see._ ”

“Stars can be seen.”

“Yeah, in the dark. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s daytime.”

Cas looks up through the windshield, then over at you. “You mean you can’t see them?” he says, wide-eyed. Apparently, angels _can_ see stars in the daytime.

You don’t like being pitied, and that's definitely the  _Poor-Pathetic-Humans-How-Do-You-Survive?_ ™ expression. “Just guess again,” you growl.

“Sam?” he guesses.

“Nooooo,” moans your brother from the back seat.

“Thanks a bunch, Cas. You woke him up. And no, it’s not Sam.”

“ _That_ was sarcasm,” says Castiel. “No. I am not guessing ‘sarcasm.’ Sarcasm is invisible. I mean that your remark employed sarcasm. Do you spy the sky?”

“No, I do not spy the sky,” you say, planning a remark about how this is starting to sound like Dr. Seuss and then remembering that Angel Face probably doesn’t know about Dr. Seuss, and if you mention it you’ll end up tangled up in a long, tangential explanation of kid books.

“Do you spy snow?”

“Nope.”

“Do you spy salt?”

“No, that’s in the trunk.”

“Shoes?”

“Nope.”

“A sandwich?”

“I wish.”

Castiel turns to look at you earnestly. “If you are truly in need of sustenance, I can, just this once, procure something for you.”

You laugh a little. “Aww, that’s sweet, Cas, but I’m not really hungry. My mouth is just bored. Guess again.”

“Do you spy sheep?”

“Cas, remember, we covered this already. It has to be something you can see, so unless you’re going to tell me angels can see sheep in the sky…”

“We passed a flock of sheep two minutes ago,” he says primly.

“Yeah, and we started playing longer ago than that. You can’t use stuff that goes out of view when you drive by,” you tell him.

“You have such complex rules for such trivial tasks,” Castiel marvels. He is silent for moment. “I can see nothing that fits the criteria. I do not know what you spy,” he finally admits, defeatedly.

“Speedometer!” you cry triumphantly. “That’s one for me, and zip for you, Cas.”

There’s definitely annoyance in the look he gives you. “What is a speedometer?” he asks, with the same intensity as he uses to tell you it’s God’s will that you do something or other.

“Whoa, dude, chill,” you say. “It’s no big deal. Thought you knew, but I’ll show you now.” You point out the different features of the car – speedometer, odometer, thermometer, gas gauge. You figure he knows nothing, so you tell him about the dash, the windshield, the glove compartment, the pedals, the steering wheel, anything you can think of. He listens attentively, nodding here and there like he’s committing it all to memory. Which he probably is, which is good because you’re not planning on repeating it and because Baby is _so_ totally loving the attention. It’s about time someone (besides you, of course) showed her the interest she deserves.

“Thank you. That was very informative,” he says when you’re finished.

“Good, ‘cause it’s your turn to spy something,” you say.

He looks nervous, but plunges ahead. “I spy… with my little eye… something beginning with radio.”

You blink.

“Oh,” he says. Is he blushing? He’s not, but you’re pretty sure he would be if angels did. “I did that incorrectly. Perhaps I should try again?”

“Yeah, 'perhaps',” you snigger.

“I’ll choose something different,” he says.

“Good thinking.” Seriously. Angels. Morons.

He’s gazing outside the car this time. “I spy… is the rhyming part really necessary? I spy something beginning with the letter ‘T’.”

“Trees,” you guess.

“No,” he says uncertainly.

“Telephone poles.”

“No.”

“Traffic.”

“No.” He’s sounding less and less sure with each answer.

“Trunks?”

“No?”

You shoot him a look. “What, don’t tell me you forgot what you spied?”

“No.” His expression is sheepish. “I may have been thinking of it in Enochian.”

“Enochian.” _Fantastic._ “Which I don’t know. Yeah, that’s really helpful.”

“It was a mistake,” he hisses. “If you want, I will make a third attempt.”

You shrug. “Third time’s the charm,” you say dryly.

He gives you the _Does-Not-Compute_ ™ look, but doesn’t ask about it. “I spy something beginning with the letter ‘D’." He stares intensely at the dashboard.

“Dumbass,” you quip.

He glares at you. “That was uncalled for.”

You smirk, and protest, “No, dude, that was my guess. The dumbass in the car in front of us.” You nod at the red Sonata that just snaked into the spot in front of you and is now going five miles under the speed limit.

“I don’t think I believe you,” he says, eyes narrowing distrustfully. You laugh, and he turns away from you to look at the car ahead.

“Whatever,” you tell him. Time to show him how this guessing thing is done. You’re pretty sure you know what it is, since he was staring at it so obviously. “D-“

“Demons!” he interrupts

You roll your eyes. “We’ve been over this. You’re not supposed to _tell_ the other person what you spy; they’re supposed to _guess_ , which is why it is called a _guessing_ game.”

“No!” he growls. “ _They_ are demons!”

“What?” Something about this ain’t right. Since when do demons drive douchey Korean-made cars miles under the speed limit?

“Fear not,” says Castiel ferociously. “I will deal with them.” He vanishes from the passenger seat, and you actually see his silhouette in the car ahead before it fills with flickering light and goes careening off the shoulder.

Cas reappears in the seat next to you just in time to grab the wheel and keep you from driving Baby right into the ditch after them while you gawk.

“I believe they hoped to cause you to drive into the back of their vehicle,” he says calmly. “They will not trouble you again.” He looks at you expectantly.

“Uh… thanks?” you venture. You’re feeling kinda shell-shocked, actually.

Castiel, apparently, is not. “I spy something that begins with the letter ‘D’, he says, as if nothing had happened.

So, yeah. Angels. They’re not totally useless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I promised - one update each day until it is finished.


End file.
